


we are the next time around

by parcequelle



Category: Major Crimes (TV), The Closer
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-28 12:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5090555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: Five Lives Brenda Leigh Johnson Never Lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "In Another Life" by Vienna Teng.

**1.**

Even after two months of hearing it, she still can't get used to the name Charlotte. She knows why they picked it, of course; she looks like a Charlotte, a Charlotte who's blonde and petite and obedient, smiling sweetly at her boss and blending into the wallpaper, an upstanding citizen who pays her taxes and doesn't complain.

They have her working in a public library in a moderately-sized town outside Seattle. She'd fought the position, requested at least a university library where she'd have legal volumes galore at her fingertips to keep her sane, but the Powers That Be had refused. They'd called it dangerous, an unnecessary risk – what if a graduate law student recognised her and the information got out? What if Stroh found her? What if they would have to relocate her? _What would it cost?_

It rains too much, but the trees here are lush and green and she has a nice house with a little garden and a white picket fence, just like she never really wanted. She supposes she could have landed in a worse place, though. Like Ohio. 

Sandra, her young colleague with the green hair and the ring through her lip, dumps a new pile of books onto Brenda's trolley with a smirk. “There you go, Aunty Charlotte. Just a few more to stop you from getting bored.”

Sandra calls her Aunty Charlotte on account of her clothes, most of which she was supposed to throw out, some of which she kept anyway, stowed in the bottom of the one bag she was allowed to bring with her: her brown cardigan, her two favourite floral skirts. Sandra tells her she looks like she grew up in the south, in those outfits; that a woman as attractive as she is – for her age – should really try to dress a little better. She reminds Brenda of Charlie, and Brenda hates it.

“How thoughtful of you, Sandra,” she drawls in Charlotte's voice. “Now please go away and leave me to my work.”

“Cranky old lady,” Sandra mocks, but she goes.

According to her birth certificate, Charlotte Eleanor Wilkins was born in St. Mary's Hospital in West Virginia on September 10, 1965, and she still has the accent to prove it. She thinks she probably ought to have forgotten Brenda Leigh's voice, by now, but she hasn't; all those years of CIA training and living in L.A. have made her an actor, and she never slips up when she's talking to others, but Brenda Leigh's voice is still the one to object when her car won't start, or when her cat leaves a mess on the carpet, or when she spills red wine down the front of her shirt. Which is exactly what happens that evening when the doorbell rings. Brenda has just sat down on the sofa, just gotten the cat to settle, just turned on CNN, and the noise is so unexpected and unwelcome that she jumps in surprise, sloshing wine over the rim of her glass and onto the skirt she was too lazy to change out of when she got home. “Ohhh, darn it!” she exclaims. She debates going to get a wash cloth for the stain, but then the doorbell rings a second time so she calls out, “Just a second!” and goes for that instead.

She doesn't even think; doesn't even remember, in that instant, that she might have something to worry about, that Stroh could have found her, could have sent someone to find her – she just opens the door. And gasps.

“What – what the heck are you doin' here?”

Gone is Charlotte's accent, gone with the wind, and Brenda, shocked into speechlessness, fingers still on the door handle, doesn't budge as Sharon Raydor pushes past her into the hall.

“Hello, Brenda,” she says. “You have a lovely house.”

Sharon is just standing there, hands in her pockets, like she's just dropped round to borrow a cup of sugar (as though the woman would ever run out of sugar), and Brenda finally recovers herself enough to close the door, to shake her head. “It's – it's not my house,” is all she can think of to say. She laughs, a strangled sound. “I believe you're acquainted with the people who have the privilege of owning it.”

“Yes,” Sharon says. She tilts her head to the side, shoots Brenda a piercing look. “Are you all right?”

“Why, Captain Raydor – you are still a captain, aren't you? – I'm doin' just fine.” She gestures around her, at the modern décor that is to Charlotte's taste but certainly not to Brenda's. She smiles. “How're you?”

Sharon smiles back at her, a little dangerous. “I'm fine as well, thank you for asking.”

Brenda crosses her arms over her chest. “Why are you here? You miss me enough to drive over 1000 miles just to stand there and admire my drapes?” 

Sharon is still looking at her, eyes bright. “Yes,” she says, low and a little jagged. “It's good to see you, Brenda.”

“Charlotte,” Brenda corrects, automatically looking around. “You never know who could be listening.”

“I missed you,” Sharon says. She swallows, fists her hands in her pockets; Brenda can see it, the outline through fabric, the evident effort at maintaining control. “Brenda.”

“Sharon. Why do you keep saying my name?”

Sharon makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-something else and takes off her glasses, polishes them with the hem of the silk shirt she's wearing beneath her suit jacket. “I'm sorry,” she says. “It just feels... it feels good to say it. I haven't been able to since – well. You know that.”

“Yes, I vaguely recall bein' present,” she drawls. “Now, Sharon, I appreciate the sentiment and all but I need to know why you're here. I need you to tell me right now, because while it would be very flatterin' to believe that you missed me I don't believe that that's the reason you're here.” She smiles insincerely. “Gettin' tossed around by the Witness Protection Program'll do that to a person. Destroy trust, make 'em cynical, y'know how it is.”

“Yes,” Sharon says. “I do. But you don't have to worry about that anymore.”

And there it is, the real reason she's come: Brenda doesn't realise she's shaking until Sharon is there, right there, touching her – Lord, she hasn't been touched in so long – pressing her gently down into the cushions of the sofa and sitting beside her. Brenda's thoughts are buzzing around in her brain like a swarm of bees, thick and angry, but she manages to ask, “What happened?”

“I should have led with this,” Sharon murmurs. “I'm sorry, I got – I'm sorry.” She looks up, her hand still firm and warm on Brenda's arm. “We got him, Brenda. We got Stroh.”

Her throat is dry. “On – on murder charges?”

“Better,” Sharon says. “He's dead.”

The word rings around in her head but it doesn't compute, it doesn't mean anything. She says it to herself, tries to makes sense of it. “Really dead?”

Sharon huffs out a laugh and nods. “ _So_ dead.”

“How? Who?”

“We had someone undercover. Lured him out.”

“Who?”

Sharon glances away, and as soon as she does the need for her to say it aloud becomes void, but she does it anyway. “Me.”

Brenda's blood goes cold. “Sharon, tell me you're--”

“It's okay, Brenda, it's okay, I'm okay.” Sharon grips her arms so tightly it hurts, but her eyes are clear and she looks steady, she feels steady, and Brenda releases a shaky breath.

“Lord, Sharon, I thought--”

“It's okay. He didn't hurt me. We got him.”

“Who shot him?” Sharon's mouth twists, and Brenda gasps. “ _You_?”

“It was a joint effort. Me and Sanchez. Sanchez and I,” she corrects, with a frown, and Brenda buries her face in her hands, doesn't know herself if she's laughing or crying, doesn't care.

“Oh, Sharon,” she says again, and she feels Sharon shift closer to slide an arm around her shoulders, and the weight of it, warm and foreign and so familiar, is like finding something she didn't know she'd lost.

Sharon holds her, Brenda's tears rubbing a damp patch into her shoulder, but she doesn't seem to care; Brenda looks up, looks into Sharon's eyes, so green and so close and so bright – too bright. She's been crying, too. “So what now?”

Sharon reaches out, brushes the tangled mess of her hair from out of her eyes, gives her a smile. “Now you come home.” She looks down, nervousness clinging to the edge of her words. “Come home to me.”

“Hey,” Brenda says unsteadily, “you broke up with _me_ , remember?”

“I take it back,” Sharon says. 

Brenda laughs. “Excuse me?”

“I take it back,” she says again. “God, Brenda, I regretted ending things so much, I wanted to come back and tell you.” She shakes her head. “I was so afraid you'd laugh me out of the room that I kept stalling, and then you were gone and it was too late, and – I want you to come back.” She reaches out, squeezes Brenda's hand like a vice. “I want you to come back with me. To me.” She looks up, and the look in her eyes makes Brenda's heart constrict. “Will you?”

Brenda kisses her, lips salty from tears, wine stain on her skirt, CNN in the background, and she thinks about her library job and her little white picket fence and her ugly green drapes, and the answer is the easiest choice in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

When she enters the room, the first thing Brenda's new defence attorney says is, “Remove the cuffs.”

The guard looks unsettled, looks between Brenda and the attorney and stammers, “But, ma'am, I don't think I--”

“Remove the cuffs,” the attorney says again, no room for argument, and the guard does it though he doesn't look pleased. Brenda smiles winningly, holds out her hands in front of her just to make it easier for him, and he rewards her by glaring. People these days can just be so impolite.

He takes the cuffs and makes a show of placing them in front of the attorney, looks at her seriously and says, “I'll be right by the door if you need me, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Mr Walter,” she says. “You may go.”

“But prison policy dictates that I--”

“Come in at the first sign of trouble, peer in through the window if you have to, but I would like to speak to my client alone!”

Walter looks unhappy, but reluctantly says, “Only if you insist, ma'am.”

“I do.”

Brenda has witnessed this entire exchange with interest – the first interest any idiot legal twat has been able to generate in her in months – and when the guard has left the room, she smiles. “I don't believe we've been formally introduced, Ms...”

“Raydor,” the woman says. She actually reaches out to shake Brenda's hand, an action that Brenda hadn't anticipated at all, but she takes it and is unsurprised to find the handshake is firm. “I heard you had your last three attorneys for breakfast.”

Brenda grins, sharp. “Well, you know the things they say about prison food are all true.”

Raydor rolls her eyes, pulls a stack of manilla folders out of her briefcase and sets them on the tabletop between them. “After they called me out here and practically begged me to take you on, I took the liberty of reviewing your case files.”

“That's already more than any of the others did,” Brenda mutters.

Raydor's eyes narrow. “Tell me, Miss Johnson--”

“Ms,” Brenda corrects. “I don't like 'miss', it reminds me of beauty pageants. Debutante balls.” She wrinkles her nose.

Raydor actually cracks a smile at that. “All right then, _Ms_ Johnson. Why exactly are all the public defence attorneys in the entire city of Los Angeles scaring their kids with stories of you?” She looks her up and down; Brenda had deliberately worn her hair in a messy braid, today, because she knows it makes her look younger and more approachable. Raydor gestures at her and says, “Obvious efforts to win me over with your demure hairstyle aside--” and damned if Brenda doesn't smirk in amusement at that, “--I don't think you look all that frightening.”

“But appearances can be deceivin', can't they?”

Raydor slams her hand down on the desk and leans in, glaring. “Ms Johnson, I am here to help you, and if your track record with attorneys is any indication, you would do well to avail yourself of that offer. Give me a straight answer!”

“I will if you ask a straight question!” Brenda snaps. She crosses her arms over her chest and slumps back in her uncomfortable metal chair. 

Raydor sits up straight again, takes a moment to polish her glasses and then slide them back up her nose. She clears her throat. “Very well,” she says. “Ms Johnson. How is it that you have managed to scare off three experienced defence attorneys in the last two months alone?”

“Because those three 'experienced defence attorneys' were incompetent imbeciles,” Brenda answers sweetly.

“Good,” Raydor says, and Brenda works to contain her surprise. “Now we're getting somewhere. Why were they incompetent?” 

She's actually got a legal pad and pen at the ready, actually looks as though she might be willing to take down Brenda's words and consider them objectively – dare she even think it? – and Brenda tries to tamp down the traitorous hint of hope that flutters deep within the clenched muscles of her stomach.

Brenda heaves a great sigh and forces herself to meet Raydor's gaze, knows this is vital to her chances of convincing Raydor of her innocence. Slowly, she says, “The first was a pawn arranged by Goldman. If you've read the case files, you must be familiar with him.” Raydor nods. “Goldman wanted me put away and thought he could do it by manipulating the court into getting me a lawyer who would argue his way right into the prosecution's hands.” Sharon is studying her carefully over the tops of her glasses and Brenda feels a quiet thrill of victory that at least she's listening. At least that. “I don't know how much of it was the lawyer's idea; probably not a lot. He didn't have a great deal of experience and we didn't get along real well. He had some... objections to my, shall we say, directness.”

“Strike one,” Raydor says. She scribbles something down on her legal pad and nods. “And the second?”

“Another pawn, smarter but not smart enough to deal with a trained interrogator,” Brenda says, flashing Raydor a smile. “She had some difficulties with my honest and well-meaning criticisms of her work ethic and she quit.” In that moment, Raydor looks almost like somewhere, in another time, in another life, that comment might have made her smile, but here she just nods at Brenda to continue. “The third was a real public prosecutor, clean; I think they made sure to get someone foolproof. Nice enough kid but I could tell from the moment he walked in the room that he didn't believe a word I said, and I am not interested in representation by someone who doesn't even care to uphold the notion of 'innocent until proven guilty'.”

“So you're innocent?” Raydor asks. “You didn't murder Philip Stroh?”

“Oh, no, I definitely did that,” Brenda says, “and I never tried to deny it. You just listen to my interviews.”

“I did,” Raydor tells her.

“Then you already know that. I did kill Stroh. What I didn't do was murder the other two.”

Raydor flips through the folder, scans down a page, and nods. “Rusty Beck and Amelia Overton. You claimed in your statement that Stroh shot Rusty Beck with your gun, that you then wrestled the gun away from him and killed him yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Is that what happened?”

Brenda narrows her eyes. “That is why it's in my statement, Ms Raydor.”

“Let's just give you the benefit of the doubt, for the moment, and say it really did happen like that. How did Amelia Overton die?”

“Amelia Overton was shot by Philip Stroh. She was the last in a long, long line of his intended victims, and--”

“-- _alleged_ victims, Ms Johnson. Need I remind you that Stroh has never been formally charged with any of these crimes, and that your incessant pursuit of him in spite of that small impediment has been widely considered an indication of unstable and obsessive behaviour?”

“Well, of course,” Brenda says, waving a hand in the air. “Persistence of any kind is always considered obsessive when comin' from a woman. How many times in your career have you been called a heartless workaholic bitch, Ms Raydor?”

Raydor purses her lips. “I fail to see how this has anything to do with me. I am not the one wearing an orange jumpsuit right now.”

But her point's been made, and Brenda smiles lazily at her, twirling her braid through her fingers. After a moment, she says, “I pursued Philip Stroh relentlessly because I knew he was guilty, and he knew I knew he was guilty, and I knew he'd slip up sometime. I made it my personal mission, for the sake of the safety of the people – the women – of Los Angeles, to find a way to bring him to justice.”

“Outside the purview of the law,” Raydor adds tartly.

Brenda rolls her eyes. “I ain't sorry he's dead, but I wasn't lookin' to kill him, I swear it. Like I've been sayin' since the beginning, it was self defence. I'd been followin' him for three weeks when he killed Amelia Overton, and I was about two minutes too late to save her.”

Raydor hums, pages through the file at the bottom of the stack. “It says here that you made a 911 call to report the disturbance at Amelia Overton's house, that the LAPD were slow to respond?”

Brenda can still remember it: the sinking disbelief, the betrayal with which she'd heard the infuriatingly calm response of the officer who'd answered her call. “They told me they'd make it there in half an hour. Half an hour! I knew she would probably be dead by then, so I took matters into my own hands.”

“Without calling for backup.”

“There was no time!” Brenda shouts. At that, the guard bursts in with his taser at the ready but Raydor waves him off.

“Everything's fine here, Walter, we're just having a little chat.” He doesn't move, and Raydor glares at him. “That means go!”

Brenda waits for him to close the door behind him, his eyes tracking her darkly the whole time. “For heaven's sake,” she sighs, “why do none o' you people seem capable of comprehendin' that there was no time? I was sittin' outside the house of a woman Philip Stroh was about to rape and murder, I'd just called it in and been told it'd be half an hour _at least_ before backup arrived, and you're tellin' me I should've waited?” She scoffs.

“It is standard procedure for an LAPD officer not to enter the--”

“I've read the manual too,” Brenda snaps.

Raydor adjusts her glasses and says, “And what happened then?”

“I decided sneakin' up on him was the best way to go about it. I climbed in the same window Stroh had used and I found him standin' over Amelia's body. He hadn't touched her, thank the Lord, but she was already dead.”

Now Raydor looks disbelieving. “He managed to kill her in the two minutes it took you to climb in through the window and find them? Seriously?”

“I know you don't believe me,” Brenda says tiredly. “You ain't the first and I doubt you'll be the last. My own husband left because he didn't believe me. They split my squad up and farmed 'em out all over the country because they _did_ believe me – I don't expect anythin' else. But if you want it, here's the truth: Amelia Overton died of a brain aneurysm triggered by a blow to the head, a blow delivered by Philip Stroh. The coroner's report was falsified after her death, as were the ballistics reports that corresponded with my tellin' of how things went down.”

Raydor takes a moment to digest that and then says, “And Rusty Beck? What did he have to do with this?”

“He'd come to us because he had information about Stroh but was afraid of what might happen to him if he gave it to us. I think Stroh targeted Amelia because he knew she and Rusty were friends. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time – y'know he tried to protect me?” Brenda says. She still remembers his face, the fall of his wild, unkempt hair; she'd only seen him alive for about half a minute, and then nothing. “He was just a kid, but he had guts.”

“And Stroh shot him, you say.”

“Yes. Stroh wouldn't have had any idea that Rusty was in the house when he broke in; he works alone, never leaves his victims alive, doesn't risk bein' identified after the fact. Rusty came into the room, callin' for Amelia, and Stroh came at me instead o' him and grabbed my gun. He shot Amelia, even though she was already dead – a fact which the original ballistics reports support, by the way – then he shot Rusty, who'd run over to me. They struggled, Stroh shot Rusty a second time but Rusty still managed to knock him off balance, allowin' me to disarm him.”

“Hmm,” Raydor says. “And how did you disarm him?”

“Kicked him in the nuts and stepped on his head.”

Raydor nods slowly, considering. “I should tell you that that information is inconsistent with the ballistics reports I have read.”

“Which are false,” Brenda says. “As I said. I moved over to check if Rusty was still breathin' and Stroh grabbed my leg and pulled me to the ground, tryin' to grab the gun, but I shot him before he could.”

“So tell me, Miss Johnson, if these ballistics reports and coroner's reports have indeed been falsified, where are the originals? To whom must I speak to have any hope of corroborating this frankly unbelievable story?”

Brenda shuts her mouth.

Raydor stares her down. “Well?” she demands.

“I'm not at liberty to say,” Brenda tells her primly. Raydor's eyes have narrowed to angry slits, and she looks about on the verge of giving up and leaving, so Brenda sighs and adds, “Though I may be persuaded to give you some assistance if you promise to be discreet with the information. I don't know... I don't know how safe I can keep 'em. They've been threatened before.”

“Who?” she hisses. “What are you talking about? Why have you never mentioned any of this in previous interviews?”

Brenda rolls her eyes. “Do you not recall me tellin' you about the incompetence of your predecessors? We never even got halfway this far.”

“Protect them, you said,” Raydor murmurs. “Who are they? If I'm going to be able to help you, I need names. Addresses. I believe you know how this works.”

“Ha ha,” Brenda says, without humour. She drums her fingernails along the underside of her chair.

“New evidence, expert witnesses, proof that reports have been falsified – these things, individually and together, more than qualify as grounds for an appeal. You might be able to get--”

“--parole? Exonerated? _Freedom_?” Brenda snorts derisively. “I appreciate the sentiment, Ms Raydor, but pardon me if that don't seem real likely from where I'm sittin'.”

“If you aren't even interested in pursuing your own freedom,” Raydor says, her voice hard, “then I will just as easily leave you here to rot. I am giving you the opportunity to set things straight, and I would be willing to assist you in pursuing this course of action if you would be willing to move a half-inch out of your way to assist _me_. Do I make myself clear?”

Brenda bats her eyelashes. “Oh, yes, Ms Raydor. Perfectly.”

“So are you going to give me those names or not?”

Brenda smiles at her. “No, I'm not. I think I'm gonna take you for a little test drive instead. How good are you, really? If you're truly interested in helpin' me then I think you can do a little diggin' yourself. But I will tell you one thing: you're lookin' for two men. One's a civilian, the other is bald. Both are taller than I am.”

Raydor slams the files closed and stands, packs everything into her briefcase with a shake of her head. “I do not play guessing games with criminals, Ms Johnson.”

Brenda smirks. “Oh, I think you do.”

Raydor doesn't answer her, just calls the guard back in to recuff her and lead her back to her cell. But when, three weeks later, Raydor comes back and drops in a veiled but unmistakable mention of having spoken with Tao and Morales, Brenda knows she's struck gold.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

Brenda dives head first into her new job and revels in drowning, in not thinking about anything but work. This position is a step sideways from the work she was doing in D.C. for the state department, but the skill-set of an investigator for the D.A.'s office is far from being outside her range. Her people are capable, have been a little slower to warm to her than the D.C. crowd but are generally respectful of her background; on good days, if she squints, she might even say they're starting to like her a little. On bad days, she grumbles at them because she's frustrated with paperwork and meetings and just has to hope she doesn't put them too far off-side.

Ten to three, Brenda pushes her hair away from her desk, grabs her purse, and leaves her assistant Ellen to babysit the office while she goes for coffee. The coffee in the office is drinkable, but she's cranky, she's unproductive, she's successfully ignored her craving for a caramel mocha for the last six days and she's now officially declared that long enough. She's mostly going so she can pick up something for Ellen, she tells herself. Make up for how snippy she's been to her lately with a little unexpected caffeine.

It's packed, of course. She's just joined the fifteen-strong queue at the little independent coffee place two blocks away, the one she goes to as much for the walk to reach it as for the coffee, when someone behind her coughs, delicately, into their hand. Brenda turns around, big smile planted on her face, and is met with a woman: dark red lips, impeccable suit, perfect dark hair, maybe ten years older than herself.

“Good afternoon,” Brenda says. She turns back to face the counter.

“Excuse me,” Perfect Hair says. Brenda turns around again and finds the woman still smiling, almost impressively insincere. “I was here first,” she says.

“Well, that's interestin',” Brenda says. “Since I woulda said the ten people standing in line in front of us were here first, but I suppose everythin's a matter of perspective.”

Perfect Hair cocks her head, makes a sound that doesn't quite qualify as a laugh. “Funny,” she says.

Brenda beams. “Why thank you.”

“Well?” Perfect Hair asks, when Brenda doesn't budge. “Are you going to move?”

Brenda blinks at her dumbly. “Oh, I'm sorry, is that what you were hinting at? I just didn't get it. I'm from the south, y'know, we sometimes have problems with subtlety.” She still doesn't move, pretends to look with fascination up at the specials board.

“Listen,” comes the voice again, icy, “I don't know who you are or what your problem is, but I do not--”

“Next please!”

Brenda turns, smiles sweetly at the fuming woman behind her. “Well don't just stand there all day talkin', you're holdin' up the line.” She steps back to allow Perfect Hair to order just as the second barista also becomes available, and Brenda saunters over to the counter with a smile.

Outside again, free of Perfect Hair's eyes boring into the back of her head, she picks up her pace to get back to the office – she has a meeting after lunch that she should try to be on time for, and she just spent far more time in the queue with that ridiculous, uptight woman than she'd intended. She stops a moment outside the doors of the building to soak up the last few rays of sunlight, sighs, and walks in.

Brenda slips into the elevator at the last minute and rides up in a car that's mostly silent but for the two guys behind her talking about tennis, stops by her office to grab the file she'd forgotten in her in-tray and then heads back down to the sixth floor for her meeting. It's going to be dull; she tries to get her yawning out of the way in the elevator, takes a moment to straighten her skirt and touch up her lipstick before she plasters a smile on her face and gets off, nodding at the receptionist before she knocks lightly, twists the doorknob and enters. 

Andrea Hobbs is waiting for her and she stands, extending a warm hand and a smile. “Chief Investigator,” she says. “Thank you for being so punctual.”

She's punctual? Brenda casts a surreptitious glance at the clock on the wall when Hobbs has turned her back, and oh, would you look at that. She really is early. “We're just waiting on the other--” A knock, and Hobbs tilts her head. “Come in,” she says. In walks Cabot, a recent transfer who Brenda has worked with once or twice and always found refreshingly straightforward and competent; Gabriel, reknowned LAPD diplomat and decent guy, as far as Brenda's limited experience in working with him has implied, and behind them – oh, no. Ohhh, no.

“Chief Investigator Johnson,” says Hobbs, “I believe you already know DDA Cabot and Sergeant Gabriel?”

“Of course,” Brenda says, nodding, smile mechanical. “Nice to see y'all again.”

Legs that last forever, pinched smile, dark-rimmed glasses, perfect hair; Hobbs gestures to the woman and says, “And this is Commander Sharon Raydor of the LAPD. She'll be your liaison and closest point of contact for the duration of this project.”

Of course she will. Brenda swallows, forces a smile. “Oh, how wonderful.” Raydor's eyes are bright and deadly, her lips twisted, and Brenda makes a decision. Tosses her hair back, extends her hand, smiles too wide. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Commander Raydor. I do so look forward to our workin' together.”

With the others in the room, the District Attorney standing right there, Raydor isn't going to contradict her. Instead, she smiles a smile that slides through Brenda like a knife, grips her hand. “Oh, me too, Chief Investigator Johnson,” she says sweetly. “Me too.”

Oh, Lord, Brenda thinks, smile still glued to her face. This woman is going to be _impossible_.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

Two days after they've moved in, the trucks long gone but the flood of unpacked boxes still littering the halls, the living room, the bedroom, the doorbell rings. It's 5:30 in the afternoon so it's unlikely to be the postman and it can't be Will, who's out for the day and who never forgets his keys anyway; it's mostly disbelief that she could actually have a visitor who isn't a Mormon that propels her up off the sofa and away from her half-finished cryptic crossword. She doesn't bother with the peep-hole, just opens the door right away, and she is surprised to find a dark-haired teenager with unexpectedly good posture smiling at her. Under her arm, she's holding something Brenda can't see.

“Hi!” says the teenager. “I'm Emily, I live next door.”

“Hello,” Brenda says. “I'm Brenda.” She manages a smile for her. “What can I do for you, Emily?”

“Oh, you know, I just wanted to say hi, welcome to the neighbourhood.” She must see the astonishment Brenda's feeling, because she shrugs. “My mom works some weird hours so you'll probably see my brother and me around before you see her.”

“Well thank you, Emily, that's very thoughtful of you. You let me know if you need anything, won't you now?”

“You too,” Emily says. “Cup of sugar, or whatever.”

Brenda wants to snort at the thought of her baking anything – at the thought of her not having sugar of all things in her house if she did – but she squashes it down and smiles. “Thank you, I will.”

“Oh, here, I almost forgot.” Emily proudly extends the thing under her arm and it's a Tupperware container full of mini choc-chip muffins. Brenda tries not to look too interested. “These are for you.”

“For me?” Brenda exclaims, hand to her chest. “Really? Did you bake these yourself, Emily?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Well, mostly. My mom helped. But I did the frosting. Please, take them,” she insists, when Brenda hesitates. And it would just be rude to refuse now, wouldn't it?

“Thank you so much,” Brenda says again. “These look just delicious. I'll get the Tupperware back to you soon, okay?”

“Sure, no rush, we have a bunch of them.” Emily glances down at her watch. “Oops, I should get going. Dance class,” she says, which explains both the posture and the colourful stretchy pants she's wearing. “Nice to meet you, Brenda.”

“Bye now. Thank you!” she calls after her. Emily leaves at a jog, turning back once to wave before she disappears around the the low hedge separating their yards.

*

It's over a month before she meets the elusive mother, two weeks after she'd finally gotten around to returning the Tupperware container to Emily, one week after Will had finally finished unpacking the last of the boxes. Brenda had done the ones in the bedroom, but she hadn't gotten around to doing the rest – she works longer and more irregular hours than he does, anyway, so that automatically makes it his job, right?

She's standing in her front yard in shorts and an old tank top, digging out a hideous garden gnome left by the people who'd lived here before them, when a car pulls up in front of the neighbour's house, Emily's house, to let someone out. Brenda is too busy wrestling with the gnome to pay much attention – whoever stuck this thing in the ground stuck it in _deep_ , Lord almighty – but she looks up when she hears a loud crack and a muttered curse from the driveway. Loathe as she is to risk small talk with a person she could be stuck living beside for many years to come, Brenda's curiosity outweighs her pettiness. “Hello?” she calls, when the woman spins first in the wrong direction. “Yoohoo!” Brenda lifts a muddy hand to shade her eyes and then reconsiders, drops it again. “Everythin' all right there?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, fine.” The woman is holding a broken heel in her hand and she smiles, a little forced. “You must be Brenda,” she says. Brenda raises an eyebrow and the woman says, dryly, “My daughter informed me that a woman with 'awesome curly hair' had recently moved in next door to us. You appear to fit that description.”

“Ah,” Brenda says, resisting the urge to touch said hair. “Emily's mother, then. The one who works the weird hours?”

The woman cocks her head, smile wry. “That's me. Sharon,” she says. She's moved close enough to the fence that she can extend the hand not holding the heel, but Brenda shakes her head.

“Oh, no, I don't wanna mess you all up by shakin' your hand, but it's nice to meet you, Sharon.”

“Likewise. A 'welcome to the neighbourhood' speech is probably somewhat belated, but I trust you've settled in well?”

“Oh, yes, just fine,” Brenda says. She looks down at the gnome lying at her feet. “I tend to work some weird hours, too.”

“You don't look much like a gardener,” Sharon says. She studies Brenda for a moment and then grins nastily. “Public servant?”

Brenda makes a face. “You too?”

“Look at that, we didn't even need to use the secret handshake.”

“Look at that.”

Sharon smiles at her, more genuinely this time, and gestures at her front door. “I should get in. Perhaps we'll see one another again sometime?”

“Sometime,” Brenda echoes. “2am, maybe.”

Sharon chuckles. “Maybe.” She tosses a wave over her shoulder and disappears.

Brenda watches her walk away, long legs uneven in only one pump. Sharon doesn't look back.

*

Over the next month, Brenda's contact with Sharon ranges from a nod as Sharon heads out and Brenda in one night after 10pm; a few words in the doorway when Brenda gives Emily a lift home after she sees her lugging a huge backpack up a hill a few streets away; and a surprisingly pleasant comparison of preferred routes when they meet on the sidewalk, Brenda just leaving to go out jogging as Sharon returns.

“Three times in one month,” Sharon says, impressed.

“I know,” Brenda drawls, “it's almost like we're neighbours or somethin'.”

“Imagine what might happen if we crossed paths intentionally?” Sharon muses. “The sun might just fall out of the sky.”

There's a teasing, challenging look in Sharon's clear eyes that's a large part of the reason Brenda shrugs and says, “Not very likely, though, is it?”

“No,” Sharon says. “Should we risk it, do you think?”

“I'd be willin'.” She shrugs, nonchalant. “Just not joggin'!” she calls after Sharon, when they've parted; Sharon turns, an elegant motion, and raises one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

“Oh?”

“I can't jog with other people. Brings out my competitive side, and that ain't pretty.”

“Well,” Sharon says, a smirk dancing on her lips. “We wouldn't want that now, would we?”

*

By some strange, silent agreement, they don't mention work in anything but a roundabout manner. At first Brenda panics – what else is there in her life that she can talk about besides that? – but Sharon is bright and well-informed and quick-witted, highly observant and interested in everything, and Brenda finds it unexpectedly easy to fall into conversation with her and lose time. It isn't too bad, having a friend again, if something she's all but forgotten. She gets the impression, sometimes, from the way Sharon's face twists or the way she reacts on impulse and then retracts, half-apologetic, that she isn't the only one treading unfamiliar ground. 

It's the fifth time she's found herself in Sharon's large, cosy living room, the kids asleep upstairs, the television humming quiet background noise, when Brenda realises there's no man. That Sharon's kids seem to have no father, Sharon herself no husband; that she's only ever seen one car being used at a time. When Sharon pads into the kitchen to refill their glasses of wine, Brenda takes the opportunity to glance around – there are photographs on the mantle, but only of the kids and what she presumes to be Sharon's parents. Could she be divorced? Could he have died? Never existed? 

Sharon comes back and hands Brenda her glass, the low light glinting off her wedding ring, and Brenda frowns.

“What is it?” Sharon asks. “Changed your mind about the red?”

Brenda shakes her head vigorously, clutches her glass to her chest. “Lord, no, never, how could you even ask such a thing?”

“Good.” Sharon chuckles as she sits back down on the opposite end of the sofa, arranges her legs beneath her. “I didn't often buy Merlot, before.”

 _Before you turned up_? Whatever she means, it warms Brenda from the inside out, contentment and alcohol combining to spread through her bloodstream, a little like relief. A moment of silence as they sip, Sharon's green, green eyes holding hers across the rim of the glass, and Brenda caves. “Say, Sharon, can I ask you a personal question?”

It isn't usually something she does, ask permission before she barges in with assumptions and too-clever theories, but she's been trying to remember lately that friends aren't suspects, aren't criminals. Not usually. Sharon raises an eyebrow, says, “You can ask.”

Brenda tries not to wiggle beneath the intensity of her stare. “Why do you wear a weddin' ring when you seem to be single?”

“Why do you live in a three-bedroom house when you seem to have no kids?” Sharon shoots back.

Brenda narrows her eyes. “You never talk about your husband.”

Sharon narrows hers right back. “And as you never talk about yours.”

The thing is, she has no idea why she didn't tell Sharon she's married, why she doesn't always wear her wedding rings, why Will's name has never come up in conversation between them. She has no idea except that it didn't seem important, somehow, until the fact that she didn't mention him holds suddenly much more weight between them than mentioning him ever would have. Sharon's just her neighbour, her pretty public servant neighbour, so what does it matter either way?

Brenda wants to say something measured and mature and sensible, but instead what she blurts out is, “You know I'm married?” 

Sharon's eyebrows disappear somewhere up into her hairline, but then she smiles a little, one corner of her lip hitched up. “In fact I do,” Sharon tells her. “My daughter has eyes everywhere.”

“Now that's frankly a little creepy,” Brenda says, making a face. “Do I need to be worried about a fifteen-year-old spyin' on me?”

“Sixteen,” Sharon corrects, “and no, her ambitions are higher; she's just observant. She wants to dance professionally in New York.”

“Impressive,” Brenda says, nodding. “I only met her a coupla times but she seems the type who knows how to get what she wants.” Around a sip of wine, she adds, “Just like her mama.”

Sharon's smile is softer, now, her eyes bright in the dim light reflecting off the television screen neither of them are watching. She doesn't look away from Brenda and Brenda can't look away from her, can't help the way her heart stutters a little in her chest, nervousness, uncertainty, because she isn't entirely sure what's happening here. She isn't sure but she thinks she should probably go home – it's late, it's dark and it's late and yes, she should go home.

She opens her mouth to say that, to stand, to leave, but then Sharon says, “Brenda,” and her voice is gentler than Brenda expects but also more piercing. “Why are you in my house instead of your own?”

“Because you invited me?”

“You know what I mean,” Sharon says, and she does. With your husband, is what she means.

Brenda doesn't answer her, just asks, “And why is there no sign of _your_ husband anywhere in this house? Did he die, Sharon? Am I bein' incredibly insensitive here?” But she knows he didn't, she knows he didn't because dead family members are usually preserved in photo frames, are evidenced in some visible, tangible way, especially when there are children left over.

Sharon takes a sip of wine, swallows it, and sighs. “My husband and I are separated,” she finally says. “Eleven years as of – next Tuesday.”

“Oh,” Brenda says. “I'm... sorry.”

“I'm not,” Sharon snorts. “Believe me, it's the best solution for everyone.” She studies her. “But my marital status doesn't explain why you spend your only free evenings in your next door neighbour's living room instead of at home,” she presses, and Brenda rolls her eyes.

“I just like to be here, is that so bad? My husband works late. A lot,” she says, and it's not the first time the dark tendrils of suspicion have wound their way into her belly, tightening there.

“Are you happy?” Sharon asks.

Brenda laughs hollowly. “That's seems like a particularly naïve question, coming from you.”

“Why do you say so?”

Brenda shrugs, sets her empty wine glass aside. “I guess I just thought you'd know it ain't that simple. Happiness,” she clarifies. 

Sharon hums thoughtfully. “Maybe it is naïve,” she murmurs. “But if you can't answer it...”

“Do you want me to be here?” Brenda asks, suddenly. “Because if you don't, I'll walk out the door right now and not bother comin' back. I ain't nobody's charity case.”

Sharon's eyes widen and she laughs. “Oh dear, no, I don't think anybody would ever make the mistake of thinking that. Yes, I want you to be here. I'm the spinster, remember?”

“What trash you're talkin'!” Brenda scoffs. “First of all, you live with two great kids and second, you're a strong, vital, intelligent, beautiful woman and--” she stops, embarrassed, aware that she's blushing. “Sorry.”

“Don't be,” Sharon murmurs. “I'd--” she clears her throat. Is she blushing too? “I could easily say the same about you.”

There's a strange pressure in Brenda's chest as they watch each other, a feeling she doesn't understand but that speeds up her heart rate and jitters along her nerve endings like fire. Her breath catches in her throat and she swallows, laughs a nervous laugh. “I, I should go,” she says, and stands abruptly.

“All right,” Sharon says, her voice disinterested, but there's a sparkle of something in her eyes that makes Brenda pause.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Sharon says. She stands and walks Brenda to the door, holds it open for her, letting in the pleasantly cool evening breeze as Brenda gathers her purse and slips on her cardigan, though she hardly needs it for the short walk back to the house. Sharon smiles at her, too wide, and says, “I hope you have an absolutely wonderful Friday, Brenda.”

“Uh, thanks,” Brenda says. “You too.”

She's a few steps down the front walk when she turns back, finds that Sharon's still standing there, a shapely, backlit silhouette, and she's forgotten the words she'd wanted to say. Were they important? “Goodnight, Sharon,” she says instead. “I'll see you soon.”

She can't see Sharon smile in the dark, but she hears it in her voice. “Count on it. Goodnight, Brenda,” she murmurs. “Dream something nice.”

It takes her a long, long time to fall asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew = Andrew Schmidt, Brenda's CIA pal from "Serving the King" (2x14-5).

**5.**

Andrew is good enough to give her Sharon's file, so Brenda is only partially as opposed to completely blindsided when she finally meets her. She actually does a double take when the woman walks into the room because she looks so different in person than she did in her picture – still gorgeous, still fierce, still imposing as the best of high school principals, but different.

“You're Sharon Raydor?” Brenda blurts, and Sharon gives her an unimpressed once-over in response.

“And you're Brenda Leigh Johnson, interrogator extraordinaire, the mere mention of whose name makes grown men tremble in their boots?”

“Well there's no need for you to be so condescendin' about it,” Brenda mutters.

Sharon rolls her eyes. “And there's no need for you to be so touchy.”

Needless to say, their first meeting doesn't go well.

*

“I just don't like her!” Brenda exclaims, when Andrew asks her to outline her exact concerns. “She's pushy, she's stubborn, she's arrogant, she doesn't listen, she never admits when she's wrong, she's--”

“I'm going to stop you right there, Brenda,” Andrew says. His glasses have slipped down his nose and he looks over them at her, eyes not unkind. “You surely know how much I respect you, but you have just precisely described five of the traits shared by someone standing in this office. And I don't mean me,” he adds, unnecessarily.

Brenda slumps in her chair. “I'm sorry,” she says, and she mostly means it. “I'm bein' irrational and childish, aren't I? Askin' for a different partner so early?”

“Yes,” he says, “you are. Though it may perhaps gratify you to learn that Sharon came to me and said exactly the same thing approximately two and a half hours ago.”

“No!” Brenda gasps. “She beat me to it?”

Andrew gives her a withering look. “That wasn't precisely the reaction I was expecting.”

“Sorry,” she says again. “So what do we do about it?”

Andrew walks around his desk and puts his hands on her shoulders. “As gently phrased as possible,” he says, “ _grow up_. I have already had this discussion with Sharon and have informed her, just as I am now informing you, that I will do you both the courtesy of pretending these conversations never took place. You still have problems in six months, come back and talk to me about it. Until then: suck it up, Agent Johnson, and give her a chance.”

Brenda resists the urge to make an inappropriate face. “Is that what you told her, too?”

“Yes, it is. There was a reason you two were assigned to be partners. Find it.” He sits down, pulls his chair back into his desk and picks up his pen. “And do go away, I have an awful lot of paperwork to get through.”

“Yes, sir.” She stands and goes to the door, pauses with her fingers on the handle. “You really think she and I can work together?”

“I think if you want to keep this assignment, you'll have to.”

That's answer enough.

*

“Truce?” Brenda asks, the next time they see each other.

Raydor sighs as though put-upon, but shakes her hand. “Truce.”

*

Six weeks into their partnership, somewhere in Argentina, Brenda saves Sharon's life. Sharon has gotten herself into a fight with three bulky goons, one on either side of her holding each of her arms, one with a knife to her throat, when Brenda bursts in with her gun raised, takes a moment to aim, and fires. The one with the knife goes down, his weapon clattering to the ground beside him, and the other one lets himself be shocked just a moment too long; a moment long enough for Sharon to wrestle herself free of his grip and elbow him in the gut before she turns and delivers a heavily satisfying roundhouse kick to his head. The third tries to run, and Brenda knocks him out clean with the butt of her gun before he even makes it up the stairs.

She looks at the dropped bodies around them, looks up at Sharon; her shirt is rumpled and untucked, her hair is everywhere, and she's rubbing her throat. The knife has nicked her, a narrow sliver of blood to the right of her pulse point that makes Brenda grimace. “Tryin' to have all the fun without me, Agent Raydor?”

“I had the situation under control,” Sharon sniffs. “But thank you for coming, all the same.”

Brenda rolls her eyes. “Nothin' to it.”

*

Eleven weeks into their partnership, Sharon saves Brenda's life. They're undercover in the bar of a hotel lobby in Prague when Brenda orders a drink – rum and Coke, she'll never forget – and she's just bringing it to her lips, about to sip it, when Sharon knocks it out of her hand and the glass and its contents shatter to the ground, splintering over the plush red carpet. Brenda barely has time to cry out, “What the--” before the bartender's eyes have darkened and he's pulled a gun out of nowhere and started firing. Sharon pushes Brenda to the ground behind the bar and gets off a round at the bartender, two shots to the thigh and one to the stomach that send him to the floor in a cry of rage, but not before one of his bullets grazes Sharon's left arm.

She's in a sling for a month afterwards, desk-bound, while Brenda works routine surveillance cases with a brown-nosing twit named Deacon whose haircut and emotional maturity level are both comparable with those of a twelve-year-old.

Brenda's lounging around her apartment one night, the television on low – some mindless movie with aliens and possibly zombies – when her phone rings. She grabs it and swipes without bothering to check who it is; she wouldn't be able to read the display without her glasses, anyway, and she has neither the technical skill nor the patience to program little pictures in next to the names. “Agent Johnson.”

“It's your partner,” Sharon says. “The one over the drinking age.”

“Ha ha,” Brenda says. “It ain't like I picked him, you know.”

Sharon snorts. “No, I somehow can't imagine that he's your type.”

Brenda doesn't know where to go with that one, so she asks, “How's the arm?”

“Good as new,” Sharon says. “Medical check-up today confirmed I'm back fit for field duty as of tomorrow.”

Brenda actually covers the phone with her hand because she's so afraid her relief will somehow be audible down the line. She composes herself, says, as casually as she can, “Congratulations, that's good news.”

“Is it?”

Brenda needs a hit; she reaches out to pat the chocolate wrapper next to her and finds it empty, grimaces, but right now she's too lazy to get up for more. “Of course, Rayd – Sharon. Of course it's good news. I'm glad you're...” she gestures helplessly at her empty apartment. “Y'know.”

“How touching,” Sharon drawls, but there's a little less venom in her voice than there has been before. Something's evened out between them, Brenda thinks. Helped them get on the road to maybe trying to get past their differences. “And here I thought you'd be mourning the loss of Deacon.”

“For the half bottle of cologne he wore every mornin'? Or the fact that he's so young he doesn't know who JFK is? No thanks.”

“Even if the alternative is me?” Sharon asks.

Brenda thinks about Sharon's hand, lightning quick as it knocked the drink from her own; thinks about how Sharon's first instinct was to reach over and protect her before she started shooting. Brenda says, “I can think of worst things.”

*

Twenty-three weeks into their partnership, strung up by their ankles in a warehouse in Birmingham, Sharon says, “If we don't manage to wiggle our way out of this one, Brenda, I just want to say thank you.”

Turning to look at her shoots white-hot pain down Brenda's neck, but she winces through it. “What for?”

“For being the reason I'm not going to die alone.”

Brenda lets her head fall back, squeezes her eyes shut against the rush of blood, the black spots darting around in her field of vision. No backup, no one looking for a check-in for at least another two hours; she has no idea how long they're going to last. “That ain't very optimistic of you, Agent Raydor,” she scolds. “I expected better.”

Sharon tries to laugh and it turns into a cough. “l've never been enough for you.”

Brenda moves her head back around, but Sharon's eyes are closed. “What are you talkin' about?”

“Doesn't matter,” Sharon murmurs. “Delirium.”

Brenda says nothing for a long time. Then, when the blood is too thick in her ears, “It's been an honour to work with you, Sharon. And you know I don't lie.”

“You lie all the time.”

“Well I'm not lyin' now! I don't lie when I'm hangin' upside down.”

“A little humour as we wait for death, well done.”

They're silent for a while, Brenda doesn't know how long, and then, when her vision is swimming and her lungs are having trouble drawing in oxygen, she forces herself to murmur, “I think... I think we really coulda been somethin', Sharon.”

Sharon makes a noise, maybe a laugh, maybe a cough she doesn't have the energy to see through. “I think, Brenda,” she rasps, and Brenda turns with the last of her strength to look at her, pain be damned. “I think we already were.”


End file.
